Intruder
by casfics
Summary: After things took a turn for the worst, Alicia remains in a coma unable to be roused. Upon admission to the hospital, the team discovered through extensive testing a horror that nobody anticipated: a pregnancy. The gruelling decision to deliver the baby pre-term was made, but with a newborn whose mother is almost gone, there’s a moral minefield and many unanswered questions.
1. chapter 1

_A/N: so I'm aware I've been sticking to small fics recently but I had an idea after seeing someone's comment and thought I could work with it. this will be AU where Eddie's assault on Alicia was back in December, the night after leave was cancelled with Ethan being clinical lead. the incident with the patio doors happened on the date it did on screen though, so August 4th. it's a little bit ambiguous intentionally as I want you all to decide for yourselves where you think it's going and what's going on. as always I appreciate each and every one of yous who reads, favourites and follows — if you could be so kind as to drop a quick review it would mean a lot. hope you like!_

It has been about 90 minutes since Ethan made the biggest mistake of his adult life thus far. After all, his talent is slipping up and getting trivialities wrong. Nothing quite compares to this.

He isn't quite sure how long he's been sitting in the relatives room for, but certainly long enough to dull his nerve endings. Numbed. Just like his mind and rational side, had it ever really existed in the first place.

At barely 30, he knows precisely nothing about babies. Endearing little ones in uni medical textbooks with chubby cheeks and delicately placed measles _somehow_ don't quite fit the image of reality before him. But of course, when Mrs Beauchamp dropped the bombshell and scanned the corridor for willing eyes, he leapt up from the plastic chair as if it was the most natural yes in the world. It would have fallen to him anyway. Most things always do.

A wrinkly, red face pokes out of the cocoon he haphazardly made out of budget hospital linen. Nobody had the time to pop down to the neonatal ward, or the spare second to think. It is more like a little alien than an infant. And totally, completely unexpected. It writhes and squeaks and shudders whilst its scrunched up features come in and out of focus as he stares down, paralysed by loss.

There's a knock on the door and he bolts up immediately from his slouch.

'How are you holding up?' Charlie asks slowly. 'I see you offered to take on that responsibility.'

'It was more of a given,' corrects Ethan, swallowing hard. 'I could hardly just sit back after everything.'

'Well, you're a great friend.'

He scoffs and clutches the bundle on his knee tighter, watching as two tiny eyelids flutter shut in rest. And wishes he could do the same. _Friend._ Real friend of the year he's been, yeah. The irony is unbearable. His inaction caused all this, for God's sake.

Colleagues that float in and out, irrespective of good intentions, only serve to make him feel even worse. Their sympathetic looks and pats on the shoulder make him feel like a small child who's fallen short of 3rd place and didn't receive a shiny sticker for his running efforts. There has always been an element of that in him from a very early age: the one who lost the competitions, the luck, the family, the woman.

Charlie clears his throat and persists. 'Do you want me to take over? You could have a breather, stretch your legs, try out that new vending machine on the second floor—'

'I'm not moving,' he snaps.

He can't possibly go anywhere because there might be an update. Besides, any slim chance that the baby could be whisked away is a risk and he isn't willing to take another gamble on anything. Playing it safe is the way to go. And it's not just himself he has to consider.

'Well, if you change your mind—'

'I know where to find you,' he cuts briskly. 'Thanks.'

Clearly taking the hint, the nurse makes himself scarce and leaves them in the room alone. Half of Ethan feels guilty for being so brusque; his pain doesn't give him any excuse to lash out on others who care. Charlie has only ever been there from him as a doting friend and fatherly figure. The old man's kindness and same even tone, although usually welcome, today felt like a chore to manage.

Peace is what his inner introvert has been screaming for and he's finally got his wish. His eyes burn with fatigue and he squints, idly noticing in doing so the yellows and pinks of sunrise spilling through the crack in the drawn curtains.

Before he gives in to his heavy eyelids, he fleetingly wonders if Alicia knew about any of this, if it was yet another secret, if she is conscious yet, _if she'll ever be again._

The tiny person in his arms screws up their face and looks back at him. Recognition washes over him as he realises that the connection with this human, who is not yet 2 hours old, is rather profound. Staring into their curious, royal blue eyes is like stepping achy feet into familiar tartan slippers. All of a sudden, they aren't strangers.

They never could have been.


	2. chapter 2

_KnightLawn: thank you!_

 _pxnic-at-mxdnight: so grateful for your unrelenting support and writing boosts! hope you like the update _

_20BlueRoses: yes that's definitely the general route it's going down, the whole 'will they won't they' and not necessarily a happy ending! appreciate your comments lovely _

_IseultLaBelle: oh you made my day, thanks for letting me know what you think and glad you're enjoying it so far! will be updating whenever I can_

 _ **AN/** deliberately writing the baby with no name or gender even for two chapters has been insanely difficult, but in doing so I aim to portray how unfamiliar it all is to Ethan and how much the baby isn't yet established to the department or the world as they were such a surprise. let me know whether you'd like this to be continued a while or alternatively, if not, do you think boy or girl? _

By some means of miracle, Ethan has managed to escape into the fresh air with baby. The department desperately needed an Asda trip, and in light of all the chaos, senior staff had no choice but to dismiss him with a raised eyebrow. At 36 weeks gestation, he knows the infant should probably have stayed well within the hospital. But he's a doctor after all and they won't be out long. Besides, if germs is the concern, there's likely a higher chance of them contracting something in the hospital itself this morning. It is pandemonium.

Luckily the supermarket is barely a five minute walk away and August brings comfortable outside temperatures. He carries the baby in his arms — little one is still without a car seat and much more than a dusty old cream onesie he dragged out from a cleaning cupboard, soaked in the sink and dried under the rusty hand dryers in the men's toilets.

'Congratulations,' a passer-by smiles warmly and nudges his wife. 'Only a tiny one, just _look_ Margaret!'

'Ah,' the lady aside him coos.

'Thanks,' replies Ethan, giving a maudlin smile in acceptance of congratulations that aren't really his to take.

They are making the only reasonable assumption, since he's changed out of his scrubs and into joggers and a hoody. Dark shadows adorning his heavy eyes definitely contribute to the false image of doting father. Navigating a trolley with arms full makes him look even more inexperienced and new to the role. Which professional consultant of emergency medicine — not even paediatrics — carries a random baby into a supermarket?

An announcement over the tannoy startles them both, causing the baby's tiny starfish hands to spring up in front of their face. A rude awakening from their daze. Manager needs an employee at the customer services desk. Ethan is taken aback momentarily at how life goes on; work for some entails stacking shelves and catering to the masses. Not treating your colleagues and best friend who is bleeding profusely and finding yourself 12 hours later with her child.

'Can I help you?'

He glances up and sees a concerned looking employee, pausing from adjusting the sale items on the clothing rail.

'Uh, yeah,' he nods. 'I'm looking for some tiny baby clothes. I don't know if- no, actually, sorry—'

The young woman smiles widely. 'How old?'

'Thirty,' he answers without thought.

She splutters and with embarrassment, he too realises the ridiculous blunder.

'Hours, not even a day.'

'As luck would have it, we had a delivery yesterday of our tiniest sizes. We have early baby scratch mitts and hats too. Good on you for giving your other half some rest. My ex was terrible when I had our youngest, Megan. Swanned off to have a cooked breakfast with the rugby lads. It was all downhill from there, couldn't get a word out of him edgeways and he had this weird way of going mute whenever I brought up date night. Thank God he left when she was three.'

'Megan is a lovely name,' he says, wishing her painstaking chattiness was cheering him rather than contributing to the migraine.

He is glad when she gives him a grin and jogs back off to what she was doing, even though the rails and rails of items seem a bit overwhelming. He doesn't know where to start. Onesies, vests, little tops, blankets, muslin squares, boots — more choice than there is in most adult department stores. Grimly, he glances from the bombardment of colour to the sleeping dot of a human in his arms and decides plain clothing would be more suitable. He wrestles a couple of packets of tiny vests off the shelf and plonks them in the trolley. 5 cream and lemon suits follow, some socks, two woven blankets and a little knitted jacket follow. Just in case it drops a degree or so outside.

And baby is being positively an angel now they are having a change of scenery. Beats the persistent wails he was treated to in the night. If only he weren't so clueless. Of course, all newborns scream, but something about their little cries was distinctly atypical. Though he's no expert, Ethan knew full well their meaning: craving safety, missing their mummy, wondering who put them in a world of such grief.

He saunters around, collecting essentials as he goes. Teabags and more milk for the staffroom. Pretty much everything from the baby aisle has piled up on top of the clothes mountain he's pushing. Whilst they're in hospital, the departments will rally and provide resources, but you never do know what you could run out of.

Instead of feeling like he's sold his soul when the cashier announces the price goggle-eyed, he is indifferent. He has been numbed in that respect too. And the earth could cave in before he'd worry about credit card expenditure. Money is a commodity, he thinks. There would be no price higher than he'd be willing to pay to restore life as it was, to cling to some normality and never ever let it escape him again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he struggles with the bags and the baby, almost collapsing against the bench outside. Ignoring the stares from loitering shoppers, he rummages in his pocket, unlocks it and presses it to his ear.

'Ethan, where _are_ you?' Charlie demands down the line.

'I- I nipped out. What's happened? Is it Alicia?'

'Did you take the baby with you?'

'Yeah,' he exhales noisily. 'Yeah, I did. Mrs Beauchamp should have said.'

'Well, she's in the room right now shaking her head. It was assumed you'd left them behind. We've been going spare, you know, reception were just about to call the police—'

'Police?' Ethan repeats, shaking his head wildly. 'N-no, I've only been gone half an hour, why the fuss?'

'Why the fuss? A premature baby vanished from our care. I know you are tired but it is the height of irresponsibility to go outside with an infant so small, no vaccinations or anything!'

'I'm hardly a meat-axe murderer, Charlie, I'm a _doctor_ —'

'But you are not the parent! Just because you're Alicia's friend, you cannot just assume you know what she'd want you to do. Nothing has been finalised yet. There is every likelihood we'll find a foster placement anyway. You need to make sure that this is for you and that you're not just clinging onto a dependent infant who is your last link to her!'

At first, Ethan is unsure of the bigger blow: the gust of wind that scatters his shopping and sends the bunch of flowers flying, or the words of someone he never thought was capable of hurting him. The baby nuzzles into his shoulder with a squeak and he rises, taking a sort of stagger towards the tulips and scoops them up. His heart breaks at the irony and ignorance of every single statement Charlie made. Nobody gets it. Like he wanted this responsibility, this stress.

There is a murmur and a scuffle at the end of the phone before he hears a long sigh down the speaker, more drawn out and feminine this time.

'Tempers are frayed, Ethan,' explains Connie lightly. 'Try not to take anything to heart. Make your way back and we will all work our way around this mess somehow. As a team.'

'See you in twenty then,' he says tersely, and cuts the call.

He doesn't care. A large part of him feels betrayed, as if it's her fault for the words Charlie said. It was clear he was going on an outing with the baby, he even gestured towards them and pointed to the door. Still, he knows it was only fair to give her an estimation of time, since he did take off with a patient and strictly speaking it contravenes lots of the not-so-small print in his contract.

A taxi pulls into the rank. Plastic bags heave with contents, digging purple grooves into his left hand. Walking home isn't really an option.

He clambers in the back, as he was always taught to, despite being a grown man fully capable of fighting off any untoward advances. With a glance at the doddery taxi driver, he concludes that somehow he would have been perfectly

safe right in the front. The baby revs up in sync with the car engine on his lap, tiny mewls that he knows — from only hours of getting to know them — will certainly erupt into screams.

'Holby City Hospital, please,' croaks Ethan over the noise.

'Sounds like little one's hungry for some milk,' suggests the driver unhelpfully. 'I'll get you both back to Mummy in a jiffy.'


	3. chapter 3

_minxheart: thank you!_

 _iseultlabelle: you're so lovely! I write to rid myself of _

_casualty withdrawal symptoms too so glad to be on the same wavelength!_

 _popscb: hopefully that will be explained a bit in this chapter! and time will tell. very grateful for your kind review_

 _20BlueRoses: adore that idea! thanks for your support as always_

 _pxnicatmxdnight: isn't it hard to venture out though and write an unusual setting? never even realised how tough it was! haha that was exactly what I was trying to convey. appreciate your review sm_

'There we are,' says Ethan, withdrawing steadily and taking a clumsy step backward. 'Hopefully that will—'

They all fall into a silence as they watch the infant squirm on the triangle of chest exposed from behind the gown. A wriggle, a snuffle and then peace as if skin-to-skin is what he wanted all along. It had been Duffy's idea when she spotted the baby, restless in Charlie's tree-trunk arms, to settle by means of introducing to an unconscious Alicia. Everyone agreed straightaway, for they were doubly sick of ear splitting screams and also hopeful her own child would make her reach out her arms, sigh or show any sign of life.

'Meet your little boy, Alicia,' he whispers. 'Every bit like you right down to his tiny yawns. Don't you want to wake up and see him for yourself?'

Whether she does or does not, it is pretty blatant that her comatose state is not something she can change. Even if her soul is in there, hearing every word and screaming with frustration, her paled lips don't even so much as twitch.

Connie eventually clears her throat and touches Charlie's shoulder lightly, as if hinting to give them some space in what is such a heartbreakingly tentative moment. They let the fire door fall against its hinges with a thud, but Ethan doesn't so much as flinch or acknowledge their departure. Instead he stays upright and stony, eyes riveted on the sight before him.

 _Waiting. Hoping._

'That poor man,' Charlie breathes steadily. 'Who does he think the father is?'

'Right now, his energies aren't spent on mindless dwelling on technicalities. The Gruffalo or Jesus Christ himself could have fathered that baby and it would not change a thing.'

He gives a withering sigh. 'But realistically, Connie—'

'I have no idea. Probably presumes it was a one-night stand. After all, they were commonplace for her only a couple of years back, weren't they? She was a love them and leave them type through and through. Young and idealistic, carefree and spirited.'

'You don't think he has any idea whatsoever about—'

'No,' she cuts briskly. 'Certainly not. Clouds float by and birds twitter singsong in his head. Everything is black and white to him. Besides, he depends so much on that godforsaken intuition he owns that he would _surely_ be the _first one_ to know if anyone had so much as _left a mark_ on the woman he _loves so deeply_...'

The cascade of bitterness stoppers the words in Charlie's throat and he falls quiet, knowing better than to attempt to counter the clinical lead when convinced she is right. Her way or the highway, as is always the case. Condensation clouds the glass he is leaning against as he watches in, if a little too intently. Nothing much has changed in the couple of minutes he found himself distracted. Ethan still stands expressionless before the bed, face now completely devoid of hope. 30 years and it never gets any easier.

'We shouldn't even mention Eddie,' Connie sighs finally, clearly having formed the same judgement as her colleague when she turns back round to appraise him. 'What will it do now? He would only become infuriated and go on a ridiculous mission for revenge again. Under no circumstances can we possibly be another doctor down. Recent budget cuts will not stretch to a third temporary locum.'

'Effectively you're suggesting blindly lying to him in order to keep the department running?'

'What other choice do we have? Whilst Alicia is in a coma, she isn't responding. With knowledge of her rape, Ethan will be completely powerless to do anything to help. And there is an infant to consider. His care for that child will be fantastically compromised with the weight of even more guilt on his shoulders!'

'Keeping it from him is neither ethical nor fair. You are regarding him as an invalid, a child, a snowflake — how would you feel in his shoes? You would want to know every last little detail! With the support of us, he could be excellent for that child until his mother is fit to care for him again—'

'If she ever will be,' hisses Connie. 'There is every likelihood we will be searching for a suitable foster family still. Meetings are taking place with social services tomorrow and busy, childless Dr Hardy with scarcely any personal involvement is going to have to present a pretty good case.'

'All evidence points to a fully recovery! You are speaking despicably about them both, what has happened to you?'

'Oh _Charlie_ ,' she smiles a little. 'That's what the statistics say.'

'How dare you be this cynical when lives are at stake?'

'In the presence of your apparent credulity, it's just as well I am being realistic.'

Charlie throws back his head and laughs.

She swallows and juts her chin out. 'I'm saying we ought to prepare for the worst.

I have seen patients like Alicia before both improve and rapidly take a turn for the worst. It is a banana skin case and yes, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.'

Inside the room, Ethan peels the mewling baby off her chest and pulls the linen back over to preserve her dignity. Something about his deliberate movements sings loud and clear his disappointment. Gentle as ever, he straightens the cotton and bends to smooth down the seams on the pillow near where her splayed blonde tendrils lie. He then moves his free to squeeze hers tightly, mindfully dodging the cannula. As if his own artwork, he stands back and stares a little uncertainly. Seconds pass before he nods twice to himself and cups the infant's downy head, turning towards the door with big, round eyes.

'Fine, if you know best,' mutters Charlie quickly. 'Here's hoping word doesn't get out in due course.'


	4. chapter 4

'So,' the social worker clears her throat. 'You seem rather smitten with this child, Ethan. Would you agree your level of care over the past 48 hours has extended beyond your medical duty?'

Scarcely even acknowledging the woman, who sounds like she's landed out the 1950s, he scoops the infant up in one splayed palm and tucks him into his chest. He knows this will give her the answer she's searching for. Besides, between the pompous language choice and the cold stares of the panel, he isn't altogether sure his brain and mouth would coordinate and respond back in comprehensible English.

He doesn't want to be interrogated, not least over a child. It seems wrong, like they're sussing him out as a candidate for a job. But being rude will do no favours. Charlie told him to keep a cool head. With a gathered nod, he gazes back at them.

'In my life, I've had to work to get exactly what I want. A career in medicine, of course, monumentally being one of those things. Most people would say you'd be fortunate to have a job like mine. I don't deny it's a privilege,' he says coolly, noticing four sets of narrowed eyes fix on his own. 'I passed my driving test even though it took two years. I tried my hardest for the part of Joseph in the nativity at the age of six. I was determined, in spite of my lisp and thick-lensed spectacles. Turned out my teacher was right to be doubtful though. Whenever I faced forward, the glass reflected the lighting and dazzled the front row. They had to urgently recast and I ended up as the donkey. No child wants that part, do they?'

Nobody laughs.

'Not many people have the misfortune of having to attest to fighting for a person, and if they do, it is usually romantically. Well, every person who's drifted into my life has been temporary. Myself and my elder brother Caleb were put up for adoption. Our adoptive parents went through a divorce and abandoned us when we went to uni. My birth mother died from a terminal illness just as I rekindled with her, my brother was assaulted two years ago and lost his life due to complications—'

'Familiar with bad luck, eh,' comments the policeman, sitting forward in his seat.

'Just a little,' he says faintly. 'Lying in a bed just a few corridors away from us is Dr Alicia Munroe, a passionate medic. She has been through a rough time over the past few months, resulting in a subsequent coma. It is a stressful period for us as a department, and a terrifying time as a friend.'

The social worker's eyes are wide and brown, pools of apathy against her pale skin. She shuffles some papers and reads almost robotically off a sheet. It is laughable, except the harrowing cause of the meeting really isn't. All of them are stone cold. They do this every week, day in, day out. Why should his life be an exception? A plug of sadness stoppers his throat.

In your statement, you wrote that you would be willing to be granted complete custody of her premature son until, and if, she recovers.'

'She will,' replies Ethan tersely.

'Will what?'

'Recover, you said _if_.'

'Covering all bases, sir. I am sure you understand the statistics at least twice as well as—'

Now they are being pleasant, polite smiles of sympathy twisting their expressions. Just doing their job, but he hates them for it.

'Yes, I-I understand that and I would never hesitate to step up for this child.'

'Why?' asks the policeman.

One syllable leaves him truly stumped, searching his clouded mind for words that would near summarise why. It is a long story; longer than long. If he were to joke and tell them they might need a while, that would never work. Ironically, they all go home in forty five minutes today, no doubt to respectable neighbourhoods, to nice little families with children who cling to their knees and chatter on whilst the aroma of homemade cottage pie smacks them in the face. Alright for some, _for most._

'I have stayed awake for nearly three days with this little man, taken him to see his mummy all strapped up to tubes. He is every bit like her. Blonde hair sprouts from his head, his scalp flakes already and he has her skin, her deep blue eyes, her way of silent pondering, her stubby toes with razor-sharp nails—'

'Sounds like you've been doing a lot of studying,' says the woman plainly. 'And not just of the baby.'

'Meaning?'

'What exactly was the nature of your relationship with Alicia?'

'It _is_ complex. Never a day have we hated each other, quite the reverse, but circumstances meant we could never blossom into anything better than a friendship,' he explains. 'Uh, a friendship quite profound.'

The panel exchange glances.

'Before lunchtime today, did you know of the rape ordeal your dear friend faced?'

'Forgive me, how is that question relevant?'

The social worker remains silent and he looks worse for not answering, like he is guilty of something, although he is positive they already know and they're just looking for how he will worm his way out and look less of a shit friend. It still hasn't fully sunk in. He wishes he could rewind time so that he wasn't in the loos at the same time as Rash. As for now, these people are deliberately trying to trip him up and he cannot possibly vindicate his terrible shortcoming. How can he, when ultimately it landed her in a hospital bed? _Congratulations to them,_ he thinks, they've finally dug up the hamartia of the stuttering, do-no-wrong doctor.

'We are trying to ascertain the intimacy, or lack thereof, as the case may be, between the pair of you in the absence of Alicia's comment either way.'

 _Posh terminology for a set of strangers second guessing what a woman they've never met before might want._

'I knew something was wrong for months,' he concedes quietly. 'I just knew.'

'Knew how?' probes the policeman.

'On her face, I could- I could sense it. Avoidance of eye contact, then clinging to me and pleading with me to stay with her, dismissing others, this vibe—'

'Intuition is a rather flimsy ground for us to deem you a suitable guardian for baby M.'

'Baby M?'

'Yes, the initial of his surname.'

Horror surges through his veins and he thinks surely not, surely they wouldn't have used Eddie's, before remembering indeed about her surname.

'Oh, yes,' he says tiredly. 'I have a lot of regrets about my lack of support in the past few months but I passed my consultancy exams and was pretty wrapped up in all things me. Either way, I accept there is no way to make myself sound less pathetic, other than assuring you I am completely dependable and I would move mountains for Alicia and this boy of hers.'

Ethan swallows tentatively and glances back down at the baby sleeping across his lap, watches as he balls his red fists to his dimpled cheeks and opens and closes his mouth like a little fish. He recognises this tiny boy overwhelmingly so. Perhaps that is because he is a carbon copy of her. At least, that's what he tries to convince himself. In truth, there is only a slither of doubt in his mind. Time has lapsed and saying something now would be a dangerous move.

One of them looks straight at him and catches his eye, holding steely contact for a while. He worries quickly that he is easier to read than he thinks, but, after a pause, the lady smiles comfortingly.

'It's quite obvious you think the world of that child, and that viewpoint is rare even in new parents—'

He holds his breath momentarily.

'You seem a devoted friend and I am sorry for all your cruel losses. Over the next two working days, we will liaise with the child welfare officer, the appointed solicitor and paediatric team here at Holby City Hospital. In that time we'll chat to a couple of colleagues who understand the dynamic from an objective point of view. Baby M will stay in the care of the hospital until then but you are welcome to visit in accordance with policy here.'

'Thank you,' whispers Ethan.

'All the best,' says the police officer as he stands up, shaking his free hand and accompanying it with a firm nod.

-x-

As they turn corner after corner in a place so well-known, they finally arrive outside the nursery. It is bleak and dismal, a temporary home to the poor babies who don't have parents to cuddle, swaddle them and take them home in nice car seats. They get cheap budget knitted blankets and plastic sheets in case of stains. Though Ethan did a stint on the neonatal ward, he now notices glumly that the "cribs" are merely a plastic box. All of it seems so inhumane. Worse still, when a nurse occasionally pops in, the babies get fed cheap, chalky liquid poorly fortified and manufactured to bulk them up rather than fill their delicate tummies. And albeit perfectly balanced, it must be disgusting. He feels the medic in him withering away by the second.

'I know it is noisy, darling,' he whispers, cradling the stirring baby against his shoulder. 'Some of your friends in there scream all day long. I think it might just be because they are sad and scared.'

The baby snuffles against his shoulder.

'I am having to be brave now. Promise me you will be a brave boy too. Once I'm less grouchy, I will come straight back for you and we'll go on a nice little walk. We can see the trees in the park and I'll even show you what the ducks look like.'

His heart breaks as he absentmindedly pictures the baby in home clothing, pink cheeked, gurgling away like he should be. He hasn't been alive to see the moon orbit earth even three times yet. A newborn baby shouldn't have anything to be brave about, for God's sake. One of the younger looking nurses from inside has spotted them and waved cheerily. Time is running out to say what he needs to in private.

'Trust is something you'll learn about when you get bigger. Hopefully you'll do a better job of it than me. I know that this world already seems a pretty mean place to you, and that I'm pants as a substitute for your mummy. Please trust me, little Max, I will protect you no matter what. Even from afar.'


	5. chapter 5

_Fire crackles in the corner of the room. Another log needs to be added; Ethan knows his inattentiveness has caused the air to chill somewhat. The wine has made him lazy though and he can't bring himself to stand up and sort it out._

 _MTV blares out some 80s playlist that he mistakenly believed would be something to turn the atmosphere a little more fluid. That was two hours ago, though. And he was wrong. Just like he was wrong about the milk, and the cooking time for the fruit pudding in the slow cooker, and how to put away the tree lights painstakingly so they wouldn't need to dash out to BQ next year — Alicia had snapped there might not be a next year if he kept his pernickety behaviours up, and a hunch bubbling in the pit of his stomach tells him her throwaway remark might be spot on. Maybe, being the free spirit she is, she feels smothered. Flimsy in the circumstances. How on Earth were they only yesterday contemplating a future together and cohabiting like actual adults if she can't live at ease with his quirks already? He can't be arsed. Instead of looking for her and simpering to her equally infuriating tendencies to flounce off when things don't go her way, he takes another large gulp of the Sauvignon blanc. Happy fucking New Year, he thinks to himself as four 0s flash across the screen and bounce off the glare of his glasses._

 _Should've known._

 _'Ethan Hardy, I am sick of you—'_

He wakes with a start, frantically clutching his forehead. Pitch black and he can't see anything. Though this immediately comes as a comfort, he's doubly heartbroken. Angry and shouting but awake and very much alive, only in his dreams. His stomach lurches and he has just about the presence of a bleary mind to stumble into the bathroom, neatly emptying the hurt and guilt and pain down the toilet. Retching, hissing, he leans and reaches for the empty drinking glass on the sink. It topples from his shaky grasp and lands on the bathmat. Inches away from a smash. Everything is wobbling now. He wants to hug Alicia, and for the first time, he wants her to hold him safe.

He thinks of his jeans with faded knees, draping over the armchair. And then her, drifting in the middle of a hospital bed somewhere.

He knows where he has to be.

-x-

Before he reaches the ward Alicia's on, he has to pass the nursery. In there, of course, is a little boy newly one week old. 7 whole days filled with grief. Bad way to start life. Peeking through the glass, he notices Max is whimpering, wriggling in the far corner. Poor baby. He goes to him and peels his sweaty little back from the plastic mattress, lets him curl against his shoulder and sways from side to side. Today is the day they find out. Well, he finds out. Perhaps the nightmare was a strange kind of omen. Seconds after he wonders this, he smirks to himself upon the realisation that she would berate him for even entertaining the idea. Fate has always been something Alicia would speak of with derision. Even now at 5am, he misses her scorn, the way she brings him back to Earth with a thud.

'Excuse me sir, visitors aren't permitted at this hour unless—'

He jerks around to see another unfamiliar looking nurse. Agency, he is guessing. Most faces in the department have become as recognisable as his favourite soap characters.

'I'm here to see baby Munroe.'

'Are you the father?'

'I am his mother's friend. Currently she is in a coma, uh, they moved her to Ward 22 on Tuesday, I think...'

'Oh, the lady with queried PVS, I understand. Unfortunately you'll have to wait until 10am, sir, and even then there's an approved list only.'

'Sorry?'

'We can't just allow friends and family unlimited access to the neonatal department in case of transferred infection. I'm sure you understand the safety of the babies is of paramount importance—'

'Persistent vegetative state?' Ethan repeats coldly, not wanting to believe his ears. The nurse only looks about 22. She could be wrong. Her foundation is caked on, borderline orange and inch thick. Maybe she _is_ incompetent. Perhaps she's got herself muddled, or heard it on the grapevine. It's the first assumption made when patients are in comas for over three days anyway, but the look of wild panic followed by sympathy on her defined features suggests to him this is reality.

'It's where a person—'

He glowers with contempt. 'Look, I'm a consultant downstairs in emergency medicine. If I put my scrubs on, you could go and busy yourself someplace else rather than gossiping and dramatising the condition of a hospital inpatient who isn't yours to oversee.'

'Dr Hardy, isn't it,' recognises another nurse tiredly, hovering in the doorway and raising an eyebrow. 'Let him have some time, Rachel. He isn't doing any harm.

Desperately, he tries to ignore the fact they're treating him with no more dignity and regard than the stray cat that time that wandered into reception, and speculates how people think pain reduces your capacity to that of a child. They talk about you when you're in the room, or worse, ignore you altogether like your fifth visit means you're now no less notable than the concrete pillar in the corner.

'This silly screaming can all stop,' he whispers absentmindedly, focusing back on the bundle in his arms.

His chest tugs once more when the baby burrows in a little. Instantly he sees a likeness, remembering that less than an hour ago he too woke up dripping with sweat the worst nightmare in the world (only it wasn't over at all), completely alone and grieving in the pitch black of night with a thumping in his ears that still hasn't quite subsided. Leaving Max in the nursery no longer seems a choice.

They patter down the corridor, somehow taking the steps to the room they've become acquainted with through misfortune alone. He knows too well that this isn't sustainable. Knows it when the baby mewls and bawls, pummels his tiny fists at his cheeks, desperately frustrated and yearning for something, someone who is scarcely even there at all. Knows it when he looks at the tiny, blotchy face peeking out from the swaddle he is clutching so tightly and sees a tabula rasa, possibility and familiarity somewhere between the dimple in this infant's right cheek and the crinkles in his forehead.

He's stopped before he knows fully what's going on. Blankly he stares, then stares some more.

Maybe that's just it. Maybe they didn't tell him because it's nighttime. Procedure says where possible do not disrupt family and friends. Maybe she is home recovering her flat, clueless that she is now mother to a son. Maybe Max isn't hers after all, and the mixup has been so wild that they can sue the hospital, _sue someone_ for putting them needlessly through a horrible ordeal. And maybe, just maybe, he's still dreaming and the sun will rise and rouse him from the slumber.

It takes several seconds for him to realise the shouts are his own. Ethan's knees collapse from under him and he sinks to the floor, sobbing. Little legs kick into his hollow stomach, scared. Those toes have been cooped up in the same cotton for days. At home, he could wriggle them in the cool evening breeze and nobody would whisk and plonk him back in a plastic container — no, he'd be cuddled and rocked and sung to, hippy Mozart, knowing Alicia, and tucked up in a cosy basket with blankets that had been boil washed to annihilate all bacteria. Through the blurriness of tears mixed with contact lenses he realises the baby's baleful stare is fixed on him, because he's now strangely loud, a snivelling mess. He's delusional.

There's a scuffle in the distance and he knows he's blown it now, someone scoops up the child, another drags him to his feet raggedly and appraise him. Matted hair, bloodshot eyes and yesterday's soup down his shirt but still conscious.

Mrs Beauchamp pushes him onto an orange plastic chair and a sheet is wrapped around his shoulders by someone else.

'Dylan, please ask Gemma — _Gem_ — to make two cups of tea.'

'A couple of coffees, surely, might be of more use?'

'One sweet cup of tea,' she hisses. 'And fast.'

'Really, we should have some sort of intercom system for trivialities such as this.'

'Dylan—'

'Yes,' he mumbles dutifully. 'I'll hurry it along myself.'

The clinical lead clears her throat once, painstakingly slowly, and turns back to Ethan on the chair. Although he doesn't give her his full attention back, he knows she can't tear her eyes away from him. For only a second, he's embarrassed, then someone rushes past with a paediatric first aid bag and he bolts back upright with alarm.

'Nothing you've done,' she whispers and takes his limp hand. 'Baby is a little weak anyway so a check is just a precaution.'

He is too numb to reply, to tell her she's wrong and that it's actually all his fault. How could it not be? For the next couple of minutes, he mulls this over.

'Wh-I thought that she was staying here now for the foreseeable, and to just rock up and be greeted with, I, why didn't anyone tell me?'

'I suppose it was assumed you would be along to the hospital in your own time, anyway. What difference does a couple of hours make? Think about it. This is nothing you wouldn't do for your own patients, acting in their best interests—'

'Best interests? I- I'm distraught.'

'And this changes nothing,' she replies gently.

A mug is pressed into his shaky hands and he takes a sip, reasoning it can't make things any worse.

He's just swallowed when Dylan shakes his head with a mixture of disbelief and ridicule, and turns to glare at Mrs Beauchamp.

'He doesn't know, does he?'

'Doesn't know what?' Connie blinks back, oblivious.

'Look at him! You've— you have no idea what it is like to fear the worst, to grieve, to descend into that ghastly inner turmoil of guilt after losing who was the most fundamental person in the world to you—'

'Is someone going to tell me?' Ethan manages thickly, quietly.

'She's not dead. She has been transferred again to the ICU, hence why the bed in there has been stripped and she's not in the room. In the last hour her GCS has gone up, likely because of an infection somewhere in her body. Either way, it's beginning to affect her consciousness and therefore her current condition is altered. That's the last I heard.'


End file.
